Smoke in Your Eyes
by xLaurieLunaticx
Summary: Sherlock and John are waiting to get into Bart's. John does some thinking. Sherlock does something a little unexpected. Hints of Johnlock.
1. John's POV

Author's Note: I haven't written in a while, and I've never written about the BBC's Sherlock. Thank you for choosing to take this adventure with me. Slight Johnlock.

Warning: While it may seem silly, I am warning that this features cigarette smoking. I am…trying to quit. I'm sure a few of you will understand the struggle.

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's Sherlock, nor any story pertaining to the A.C.D. fanchise. And I certainly do not dream about it most nights. Certainly not.

"Smoke in Your Eyes"

* * *

John's POV

8PM on a Saturday night was not a strange time for John and Sherlock to be making a trip to the morgue. Hardly anything seemed strange anymore to John Watson, not since Sherlock Holmes winked at him that one fateful night at Bart's. Sherlock expected John to be ready for anything, for danger. However, Sherlock did not expect that the morgue would be locked and its usual inhabitant—one Miss Molly Hooper—to be home of all things on a Saturday night. Sherlock won't talk about the last time he broke into the morgue, and John won't ask, but it is the reason why they've been standing outside.

"Molly does not have a social life," Sherlock says with utmost certainty, like he did with all things. Except feelings. That's my area.

"You can't blame the poor girl," I try convincingly, "She's allowed to have one."

"Dull," and that's the end of the conversation. Sherlock pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his Belstaff.

"I bought you a box of Nicotinell just this week," I protest, "and I know you haven't run out just yet."

This is because I, John Watson, have to pick up after another grown man who is just too lazy or weighed down by his enormous brain (intellect, ego, whatever) to take the used patches to the bin after ripping them off. He stares at me with his utterly bored look. Not just the regular there-isn't-a-case-on-right-now-I'm-so-bored look, but the look he gives me when I ask him an "obviously" stupid question and is telling me with his narrowed eyes and puckered lips that he will not dignify that with a response.

He rounds his shoulders and lights a cigarette anyway before I can protest again. He closes his eyes as the first plume of smoke wafts up to mingle with the crisp London air. Sherlock takes another quick pull, and the red, cherry end lights up while a few embers fall to the ground. I hate this smoking nonsense.

"I'm a doctor, you know." I know he knows. Men who smoke typically have an average of 13.2 years shaved off of their lives, because that's what Sherlock Holmes needs, more danger. 69 of the chemicals found in cigarettes cause cancer. I know these facts because I'm a doctor, and Sherlock must know these facts because, let's face it, the man knows just about everything. He just disregards it.

"Yes." Disregarded. He taps away on his phone. The cigarette dangling between two fingers mocks me.

_Next time_, I decide, _we're texting Molly before bounding over to the morgue._ I stare at my own phone, which has no messages. I hope to any god that's listening that Molly arrives before I grow the nerve needed to pluck the cigarette out his mouth and cause a fight or, god forbid, Sherlock decides that waiting is a two-cigarette problem. Somehow, asking Sherlock to tidy the kitchen last week was a three-patch problem and the kitchen remained untidy. Remains untidy.

He's close to finishing. I try not to focus on the small flame growing closer to his fingers with each inhalation. Instead I try focusing on how, despite how much of a berk Sherlock is, I still love him. I feel the need to summarize my feelings for him aloud, "You're an idiot."

He looks at me sideways while taking another drag. One corner of his mouth turns up, peeking up over the upturned collar of his great coat. A sort of private smile. My smile, and mine alone. Imperfect because I feel in love with an imperfect man and for me, that's all fine. Even when he spends a lot of time trying to be perfect, that's fine too.

"I'm a genius," he retorts. He enjoys correcting me, but this has no bite. Who would have thought that Sherlock could be playful?

He goes to take one last drag of his cigarette and it happens. His nose scrunches up and some smoke passes through his lips that hadn't yet been inhaled. His eyes close hard once, and he opens them to stare upwards.

_Did Sherlock just blow smoke in his eyes?_ I think to myself. When he begins to blink rapidly and tears form at the corner of his right eye, I have to admit I am a little stunned. _Something just happed that he did not anticipate_.

Sherlock scrubs at his eyes and he drops the cigarette to the ground, aimlessly stomping it out. He begins to scowl as he swipes the back of his hand to rid himself of his eye's natural defense to foreign objects. I poorly stifle a (manly) giggle and his scowl deepens.

Sherlock is many things. A genius. A consulting detective. A self-proclaimed sociopath with feelings. A chemist. A brother. A best friend, partner, flatmate, lover. He projects a pristine image of himself with tailored suits and his billowing coat. His mind is a marvel to envy. He is perfect with his long neck and limbs and digits. Blowing smoke in one's eye is not "perfect."

_I love Sherlock Holmes._ I smile wider. _I love all of these things about him. How, at some times, he hardly seems human with his denial of food and sleep. How he can take one look at you and tell you about your life. How he knows what I ate for breakfast and somehow remembers 243 types of tobacco ash but can never remember Lestrade's first name. Sherlock Holes is…_

"An idiot genius," I manage to force out.

_Human._

* * *

Author's Note: This story was written with the company of 3 cigarettes. If anyone would like, I would very much enjoy delving into a second part.


	2. Sherlock's POV

Author's Note: A companion story to "Smoke in Your Eyes" from Sherlock's POV.

Warning: While it may seem silly, I am warning that this features cigarette smoking. I am…trying to quit. I'm sure a few of you will understand the struggle.

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's Sherlock, nor any story pertaining to the A.C.D. franchise. And I certainly do not dream about it most nights. Certainly not.

"Smoke in Your Eyes"

Sherlock's POV

* * *

While Sherlock was rude at best to Molly Hooper, he had never hated her more than 8PM this Saturday night. Standing outside of Bart's practically itching for a cigarette while a disgruntled (but trying not to appear so) doctor stood by your side was not Sherlock's idea of a good Saturday night. Though, if you asked Sherlock Holmes what _was_ a good way to spend the weekend…well, let's just say no one would agree with him on that front either.

I grumble to John, "Molly does not have a social life." John is always reminding me on the finer points of making small talk. Rubbish.

"You can't blame the poor girl. She's allowed to have one," he admonishes. Surely, I have never wanted a cigarette more.

"Dull." I pull out a pack of cigarettes. I block out all thoughts of what John may have to say about this "bad" habit of mine.

I had just reigned in the discontented John Watson that resides in my mind palace, the physical one obviously had to have a go at me. I hold back a groan as he protests, "I bought you a box of Nicotinell just this week and I know you haven't run out just yet."

_I'd like to see how you deduced that, Doctor._ I hold back that remark. John always says to think before I speak, which is ludicrous, because I am _always thinking_. I send him one of my "boredom" looks, as John calls it, for him to contemplate. I contemplate if John has catalogued all of my various "boredom" looks as I have catalogued his facial expressions. John's lips have pursed and he is thinking of me. I pull a cigarette and light it before he can make any more remarks about my smoking.

I can see his nose shrivel up distastefully as he comments, "I'm a doctor, you know."

_Obviously_. I settle for, "Yes," while continuing to pull smoke into my lungs. John never hunches his shoulders because, on subconscious level, he feels that it will make him look short. He is short for a man and often gets overlooked at crime scenes, so the doctor stands as tall as he can. However, he hunches his shoulders, worries his lip, and begins thinking. John, being a doctor, knows the risks of smoking. I, being Sherlock Holmes, can tell you about 7,000 odd chemicals found in cigarettes and about 243 different types of tobacco ash from memory. I text Molly to speed things along; it only takes me 5.3 minutes for me to reach the filter, and I do not wish to hear John's comments about lighting up a second cigarette.

John reaches into his pocket and produces his phone, which he stares at with a frown. There's nothing to keep him occupied on his phone—the man can create impeccable stitches under stressful situations but cannot navigate phone apps if his life depended on it—and I contemplate sending him a text. I dominate most of the texting space on his phone anyway.

_Angelo's later? SH_

I delete it before I send it. John would protest that I'm standing right next to him, and that it would not kill me to talk to him. I will respond that I prefer to text. His mood will sour and claim that he does not want to spend the rest of his Saturday night being stared at while he eats because we're on a case. I almost contemplate breaking into the morgue.

_Molly should just GIVE me the keys to the lab. I would have solved this and John and I could have dinner and I may actually eat._ I am almost finished with my cigarette, pausing only to flick ash to the cement. John watches the cherry end make progress towards my fingers. I want to tell him to stop worrying over me too much, lest his hair decide to sprout more greys. His eyes travel to my face, still carrying that hint of irritation but with a certain fondness one would reserve for the closest of friends.

"You're an idiot," he deadpans.

I glance sideways at him while taking another pull. One corner of my mouths pulls up into a half smirk, despite my efforts to suppress the smile. _This is John_, my mind supplies,_ you can smile for John._

"I'm a genius," I correct, but I cannot keep the mirth out of my voice. John smiles his John-smile, the one that make both the corners of his mouth and eyes turn up. _John-smile no. 17_, my mind palace supplies, _arguably a crowd favorite_.

I want to smile again, or perhaps go for more humor, just to see that smile continue. To replace the contemplative frown I have caused by my smoking, by our Saturday night waiting game. However, my cigarette is close to finishing and the smoke wanders into my eyes. I close my eyes hard, hoping that the slight burning sensation will pass. I open them and look skywards, hoping that John would not notice that The Sherlock Holmes just blew smoke into his own eye.

While I may not pride John on his observational skills, he is far from being an Anderson. He looks at me with a stunned expression as I blink rapidly to combat my eye's natural defense to foreign bodies. _Stupid _transport.

Alas, tears form anyway. Frustrated, I stomp the cigarette out of the pavement and swipe the tears away. I chance another look at John and find that he is stifling his laughter. While his laughter may be at my own expense, I would take any chance I could get to hear it. I catalogue the noise in John's section of the mind palace and delete a William Blake poem. I would tell him what it was, but I have already gone and deleted it.

_After all, Captain John Hamish Watson, MD, is…_

"An idiot genius," he squeaks out through the giggles.

_More important_.

* * *

Author's Note: This story was written also with the company of 3 cigarettes. Thank you for reading and taking this small journey with me.


End file.
